Yoga. Early morning.
At the close of each practice, we lie
on our backs, eyes closed, feet slightly apart
and arms extended out from the body, palms upward.
Savasana. Ten minutes, after a fairly intense workout
of stretches and prolonged poses. Time
for the body to process all that it has just done,
time to free the mind of thoughts. I've been
practicing yoga for nearly two years, and once
during savasana I had the sensation of levitating,
my body raising about twelve inches, then rotating,
floating, all very slow and dream-like. Today
I was given the gift of another other-world experience.
I was lying on my back, a mini lavender-scented
pillow over my eyes. There was a window open, and the clouds
parted for a few minutes. (This after three days of wild weather:
snow followed by monsoon-like rains.) I could sense sunlight
illuminating the room. The wind kicked up, and a chime
tinkled outside, delicately audible. As the wind rustled
the curtains, crinkled the edges of magazines,
filling the room with an almost balmy glow,
I was aware of spirits entering on the breeze, flowing
around the three of us supine on our mats,
bright benevolent swirls of blues, greens, reds, yellows.
They persisted for just a few moments --
until the furnace clicked on, forcing hot, packaged air
into the space, driving our visitors back out the windows.
The chimes became silent, the sun disappeared.
As if there was no place for these -- what? Ghosts?
Angels? -- in our conscious world. Our intentional act
of operating a furnace, taking control of our living space,
sent them back out into the wide wild universe.
We who are fully alive, filled with breath.
The temperature in the room dropped just enough
to warrant closing the window. It is, after all, December.
But my hope is that they come again, uninvited,
when the scent of lavender fills the winter air.
And may there always be an open window.